Part Three: Le Tapis Bleu

It's only in French to make it, you know, classier. Because God knows, Hollywood needs a lot of things, and classing up is definitely one of them. LiLo, anyone?

Saturday morning, the day after the gifting fiasco, dawned drizzly and cold. We had moved to the hotel the studio put us in for the awards (thank you, Paramount Vantage, for this part of our family trip--it was lovely) and after a breakfast characterized by only two temper tantrums (first the Babe, then her father) the H and I returned to our rooms to start getting ready for his moment of non-triumph. It was pretty clear (hello, Writers Guild Awards? Oscar nominations?) that the newly-legendary ex-stripper Diablo Cody was going to win, which was alternately kind of irritating and a bit of a relief. Lowered expectations and all that.

A black towncar arrived at 11:30 to pick us up for the three and a half minute trip to the tent on the beach where the awards were to be held. The H's publicist would meet us at the entrance and guide him through the gauntlet otherwise known as the red carpet.

But at the Spirit Awards, because, you know, they're Indie, the carpet is actually blue. This might be a case of being different, say, just for the sake of being different. Maybe. You can decide for yourself.

Over my long enough career in La-La Land, I spent long enough on red carpets. Unless you're famous, it's just floorcovering. You walk quickly, avoiding eye contact with the microphone and camera brandishers along the sides. They could care less about you, or you about them. Oddly, this is true for screenwriters, as well. Unless, say, they have a publicist at their side. (Or a compelling and well-publicized past as a sex-worker.)

God bless her, the H's lovely flack managed to garner enough interest in him to keep him occupied for a good half an hour as we slowly wended our way down the aisle. I did what any woman bored at an awards show would do: I looked at fashion.

Those are Ileana Douglas' feet in the first shot--I thought the shoes were fab. Not so much the ill-fitting dress worn by John's competition (though her ink is nice) and this poor starlet had a major wardrobe malfunction witnessed only, I think, by me and about a hundred or so journalists. Not her lucky day. But you know those stick on bra thingies? They really do stick on! Even when your dress falls off! So it could have been worse.

When the fashion got dull, I looked for people we knew. I said hello to a producer (sorry, no pictures--they don't make it onto WireImage) or actor or three, and tried (in vain) to live post pics I was taking to my blog. People, I tried. I can't help it that Utterz failed me.

But the best was going on, unbeknownst to me, with the H, hard at work amidst his media interviews. There he was, speaking earnestly with BBC Radio, and then with E!. Just as the beautiful spokesmodel reporter posed an insightful question, he noticed her cameraman hard at work--changing the battery pack on his camera. That's right, folks--he was being interviewed, but the camera was not running. Nope. Not turned on. Since the H, among his many talents, includes film and video production, he was savvy to this little snafu. Mid sentence, he stopped. "I don't think there's any reason for me to answer that question." "Why?" smiled the "reporter." "Look at your camera man. Thanks for your time."

Stay tuned for Part Four: THE CENTER OF THE MEDIA UNIVERSE